Scene Fourteenth. A Hillside in the Fields

Enter Mistresse Barnes [with torch].

Mis. Ba. O, what a race this peevish girle hath led me!
How fast I ran, and now how weary I am!
I am so out of breath I scarce can speake,—
What shall I doe?—and cannot overtake her.
It is late and darke, and I am far from home:
May there not theeves lye watching heere about,
Intending mischiefe unto them they meete?
There may; and I am much affrayde of them,
Being alone without all company.
I doe repent me of my coming foorth;
And yet I do not,—they had else beene married,
And that I would not for ten times more labour.
But what a winter of colde feare I thole,
Freecing my heart, least danger should betide me!
What shal I do to purchase company?
I heare some hollow here about the fields:
Then here Ile set my torch upon this hill,
Whose light shall beacon-like conduct them to it;
They that have lost theyr way, seeing a light,
For it may be seene farre off in the night,
Will come to it. Well, here Ile lye vnseene,
And looke who comes, and chuse my company:
Perhaps my daughter may first come to it. [Retires to one side.]

[Enter Mistresse Goursey.]

Mi. Gour. Where am I now? nay, where was I even now?
Nor now, nor then, nor where I shall be, know I.
I thinke I am going home: I may as well
Be going from home; tis so very darke,
I cannot see how to direct a step.
I lost my man, pursuing of my sonne;
My sonne escapt me too: now, all alone,
I am enforst to wander up and downe.
Barnses wife's abroad: pray God, that she
May have as good a daunce, nay, ten times worse!
Oh, but I feare she hath not; she hath light
To see her way. O, that some bridge would breake,
That she might fall into some deep digd ditch,
And eyther breake her bones or drowne her selfe!
I would these mischiefes I could wish to her
Might light on her!—but, soft; I see a light:
I will go neere; tis comfortable,
After this nights sad spirits dulling darknes.
How now? what, is it set to keep it selfe?

Mis. Bar. A plague ont, is she there? [Aside.]

Mis. Gou. O, how it cheares and quickens up my thoughts!

Mis. Bar. O, that it were the besseliskies fell eye,
To poyson thee! [Aside.]

Mi. Gou. I care not if I take it,—
Sure none is here to hinder me,—
And light me home.

Mi. Bar. I had rather she were hangd
Then I should set it there to doe her good. [Aside.]

Mis. Go. I faith, I will.

Mi. Ba. I faith, you shall not, mistresse;
Ile venter a burnt finger but Ile have it. [Aside.]

Mi. Gou. Yet Barnses wife would chafe, if that she knew
That I had this good lucke to get a light.

Mi. Ba. And so she doth; but praise your lucke at parting. [Aside.]

Mi. Go. O, that it were her light, good faith, that she
Might darkling walke about as well as I!

Mi. Ba. O, how this mads me, that she hath her wish! [Aside.]

Mi. Go. How I would laugh to see her trot about!

Mi. Bar. Oh, I could cry for anger and for rage! [Aside.]

Mi. Go. But who should set it here, I marvel, a Gods name.

Mi. Bar. One that will hav'te from you, in the devils name. [Aside.]

Mi. Go. Ile lay my life that it was Barnses sonne.

Mi. Ba. No, forsooth, it was Barnses wife. [Advancing to seize torch.]

Mi. Gou. A plague upon her, how she made me start! [Aside].—
Mistresse, let go the torch. [They struggle for it.]

Mis. Bar. No, but I will not.

Mh. Gou. Ile thrust it in thy face, then.

Mi. Bar. But you shall not.

Mi. Gou. Let go, I say.

Mi. Ba. Let you go, for tis mine.

Mis. Go. But my possession saies, it is none of thine.

Mi. Bar. Nay, I have holde too.

Mi. Gou. Well, let go thy hold, or I will spurn thee.

Mi. Bar. Do; I can spurne thee too.

Mi. Go. Canst thou?

Mi. Ba. I, that I can.

Enter Master Goursey and Barnes.

M. Gou. Why, how now, woman? how unlike to women
Are ye both now! come, part, come, part, I say.

M. Ba. Why, what immodesty is this in you!
Come, part, I say; fie, fie.

Mi. Ba. Fie, fie! I say, she shall not have my torch.—
Give me thy torch, boy:—I will run a tilt,
And burne out both her eyes in my encounter.

Mi. Go. Give roome, and lets have this hot cariere.

M. Go. I say, ye shall not: wife, go to, tame your thoughts
That are so mad with fury.

M. Ba. And, sweet wife,
Temper your rage with patience; do not be
Subject so much to such misgovernment.

Mi. Bar. Shal I not, sir, when such a strumpet wrongs me?

Mi. Go. How, strumpet, mistris Barnes! nay, I pray, harke ye:
I oft indeed have heard you call her so,
And I have thought upon it, why ye should
Twit her with name of strumpet; do you know
Any hurt by her, that you terme her so?

M. Ba. No, on my life; rage onely makes her say so.

M. Go. [with pretended suspicion]. But I would know whence this same rage should come;
Whers smoke, theres fire; and my heart misgives
My wives intemperance hath got that name;—
And, mistresse Barnes, I doubt and shrewdly doubt,
And some great cause begets this doubt in me,
Your husband and my wife doth wrong us both.

M Ba. [with assumed indignation]. How! thinke ye so? nay, master Goursey, then,
You run in debt to my opinion,
Because you pay not such advised wisedome
As I thinke due unto my good conceit.

M. Go. [angrily]. Then still I feare I shall your debter proove.

[M. Bar.]. Then I arrest you in the name of love;
Not bale, but present answere to my plea;
And in the court of reason we will try
If that good thoughts should beleeve jelousie. [They make as if they were fighting.]

[Enter Phillip, Frank, Coomes, &c.]

Phil. Why, looke you, mother, this is long of you.—
For Gods sake, father, harke! why, these effects
Come still from womens malice: part, I pray.—
Comes, Wil, and Hodge, come all, and helpe us part them!— [They try to part the combatants.
Father, but heare me speake one word, no more.

Franke. Father, but heare me speake, then use your will.

Phil. Crie peace betweene ye for a little while.

Mi. Gou. [pulling her husband off]. Good husband, heare him speake.

Mis. Bar. [pulling at hers]. Good husband, heare him.

Coom. [pulling at Goursey]. Maister, heare him speake; hees a good wise young stripling for his yeeres, I tell ye, and perhaps may speake wiser then an elder body; therefore heare him.

Hod. Master, heare, and make an end; you may kil one another in jest, and be hanged in earnest.

[He parts them.]

M. Go. Come, let us heare him.—Then, speake quickly, Phillip.

M. Ba. Thou shouldst have done ere this; speak, Phil, speak.

Mis. Bar. O Lord, what haste you make to hurt your selves!—
Good Phillip, use some good perswasions
To make them friends.

Phi. Yes, Ile doe what I can.—
Father, and master Goursey, both attend.
It is presumption in so young a man
To teach where he might learne, or [to] derect
Where he hath had direction; but in duety
He may perswade as long as his perswase
Is backt with reason and a rightfull sute.
Phisickes first rule is this, as I have learned,
Kill the effect by cutting of the cause:
The same effects of ruffin outrages
Comes by the cause of mallice in your wives;
Had not they two bin foes, you had bin friends,
And we had bin at home, and this same war
In peacefull sleep had nere bin dreamt upon.—
Mother, and mistresse Goursey, to make them friends,
Is to be friends your selves: you are the cause,
And these effects proceed, you know, from you;
Your hates give life unto these killing strifes,
But dye and if that envy dye in you.—

[The fathers make as if to renew the combat.]

Fathers, yet stay.—O, speake!—O, stay a while!—[They desist.]
Francis, perswade thy mother.—Maister Goursey,
If that my mother will resolve your minde
That tis but meere suspect, not common proofe,
And if my father sweares hees innocent,
As I durst pawne my soule with him he is,
And if your wife vow truth and constancy,
Will you be then perswaded?

M. Gou. Phillip, if thy father will remit
The wounds I gave him, and if these conditions
May be performde, I bannish all my wrath.

M. Bar. And if thy mother will but cleere me, Phillip,
As I am ready to protest I am,
Then master Goursey is my friend againe.

Phi. Harke, mother; now you heare that your desires
May be accomplished; they will both be friends,
If you'l performe these easie articles.

Mi. Ba. Shall I be friends with such an enemy?

Phil. What say you unto my perswase?

Mi. Ba. I say shees my deadly enemie.
Phil. I, but she will be your friend, if you revolt.

Mi. Ba. The words I said! what, shall I eate a truth?

Phi. Why, harke ye, mother.

Fra. Mother, what say you?

Mis. Go. Why, this I say, she slaundered my good name.

Fra. But if she now denie it, tis no defame.

Mi. Go. What, shall I thinke her hate will yeeld so much?

Fra. Why, doubt it not; her spirit may be such.

M. Go. [Impatient for the reconciliation.] Why, will it be?

Phi. Yet stay, I have some hope.
Mother, why, mother, why, heare ye.
Give me your hand; it is no more but thus;
Tis easie labour to shake hands with her:
A little breath is spent in speaking of faire words,
When wrath hath violent deliveries.

M. Bar. What, shall we be resolved? [As if to renew the fray.]

Mi. Bar. O husband, stay!— [Stepping between them.]
Stay, maister Goursey: though your wife doth hate me,
And beares unto me mallice infinite
And endlesse, yet I will respect your safeties;
I would not have you perish by our meanes:
I must confesse that onely suspect,
And no proofe els, hath fed my hate to her.

Mi. Gour. And, husband, I protest by heaven and earth
That her suspect is causles and unjust,
And that I nere had such a vilde intent;
Harme she imaginde, where as none was ment.

Phil. Loe, sir, what would yee more?

M. Bar. Yes, Phillip, this;
That I confirme him in my innocence
By this large universe.

M. Gour. [with show of continued impatience.] By that I sweare,
Ile credit none of you, until I heere
Friendship concluded straight betweene them two:
If I see that they willingly will doe,
Then Ile imagine all suspition ends;
I may be then assured, they being friends.

Phil. Mother, make full my wish, and be it so.

Mi. Bar. What, shall I sue for friendship to my foe?

Phil. No: if she yeeld, will you?

Mi. Ba. It may be, I.

Phil. Why, this is well. The other I will trie.—
Come, mistresse Goursey, do you first agree.

Mi. Gour. What, shall I yeeld unto mine enemie?

Phil. Why, if she will, will you?

Mi. Gou. Perhaps I will.

Phil. Nay, then, I finde this goes well forward still.
Mother, give me your hand,—give me yours to[o];
Be not so loath; some good thing I must do;
But lay your torches by, I like not them;
Come, come, deliver them unto your men:
Give me your hands.—So, now, sir, heere I stand,
Holding two angrie women in my hand:
And I must please them both; I could please tone,
But it is hard when there is two to one,
Especially of women; but tis so,
They shall be pleasd whether they will or no.—
Which will come first? what, both give back! ha, neither!
Why, then, yond may helpe that come both together.
So, stand still, stand but a little while,
And see how I your angers will beguile.
Well, yet there is no hurt; why, then, let me
Joyne these two hands, and see how theil agree: [They kiss.]
Peace, peace! they crie; looke how they friendly kisse!
Well, all this while there is no harme in this:
Are not these two twins? twins should be both alike,
If tone speakes faire, the tother should not strike:
Jesus, these warriours will not offer blowes!
Why, then, tis strange that you two should be foes.
O, yes, youle say, your weapons are your tongues;
Touch lip with lip, and they are bound from wrongs:
Go to, imbrace, and say, if you be friends,
That heere the angrie womens quarrels ends. [They embrace.]

Mi. Gou. Then heere it ends, if mistres Barnes say so.

Mi. Bar. If you say, I, I list not to say, no.

M. Gou. If they be friends, by promise we agree.

M. Bar. And may this league of friendship ever be!

Phil. What saist thou, Franke? doth not this fall out well?

Fran. Yes, if my Mall were heere, then all were well.

Enter Sir Raphe Smith with Mall [who stands aside].

Raph. Yonder they be, Mall: stay, stand close, and stur not,
Untill I call.—God save yee, gentlemen!

M. Bar. What, sir Raph Smith! you are a welcome man:
We wondred when we heard you were abroad.

Raph. Why, sir, how heard yee that I was abroad?

M. Bar. By your man.

Raph. My man! where is he?

Will. Heere.

Raph. O, yee are a trustie squire!

Nic. It had bin better, and he had said, a sure carde.

Phil. Why, sir?

Nic. Because it is the proverbe.

Phil. Away, yee asse!

Nic. An asse goes a foure legs; I go of two, Christ crosse.

Phi. Hold your tongue.

Nic. And make no more adoe.

M. Gou. Go to, no more adoe.—Gentle sir Raphe,
Your man is not in fault for missing you,
For he mistooke by us, and we by him.

Raph. And I by you; which now I well perceive.
But tell me, gentlemen, what made yee all
Be from your beds this night, and why thus late
Are your wives walking heere about the fields:
Tis strange to see such women of accoumpt
Heere; but I gesse some great occasion.

M. Gour. Faith, this occasion, sir: women will jarre;
And jarre they did to day, and so they parted;
We knowing womens mallice let alone
Will, canker like, eate farther in their hearts,
Did seeke a sodaine cure, and thus it was,—
A match betweene his daughter and my sonne:
No sooner motioned but twas agreed,
And they no sooner saw but wooed and likte:
They have it sought to crosse, and crosse it thus.

Rap. Fye, mistresse Barnes, and mistresse Goursey both;
The greatest sinne wherein your soules may sinne,
I thinke, is this, in crossing of true love:
Let me perswade yee.

Mi. Bar. Sir, we are perswaded,
And I and mistresse Goursey are both friends;
And, if my daughter were but found againe,
Who now is missing, she had my consent
To be disposd off to her owne content.

Raph. I do rejoyce that what I thought to doe,
Ere I begin, I finde already done:
Why, this will please your friends at Abington.—
Franke, if thou seekst that way, there thou shalt finde
Her, whom I holde the comfort of thy minde.

Mall. [coming forward]. He shall not seeke me; I will seeke him out,
Since of my mothers graunt I need not doubt.

Mi. Bar. Thy mother graunts, my girle, and she doth pray
To send unto you both a joyfull day!

Hodg. Nay, mistresse Barnes, I wish her better; that those joyfull dayes may be turned to joyfull nights.

Coom. Faith, tis a pretty wench, and tis pitty but she should have him.

Nich. And, mistresse Mary, when yee go to bed, God send you good rest, and a peck a fleas in your nest, every one as big as Francis!

Phil. Well said, wisdome: God send thee wise children!

Nich. And you more money.

Phil. I, so wish I.

Nich. Twill be a good while ere you wish your skin full of ilet holes.

Phil. Franke, harke ye: brother, now your woings doone,
The next thing now you do is for a sonne;
I prithe, for, i faith, I should be glad
To have myselfe cald nunckle, and thou dad.—
Well, sister, if that Francis play the man,
My mother must be grandam, and you mam.—
To it, Francis,—to it, sister!—God send yee joy!
Tis fine to sing, "dansey, my owne sweete boye!"

Fra. Well, sir, jest on.

Phil. Nay, sir, do you jest on.

M. Bar. Well, may she proove a happy wife to him!

M. Gou. And may he proove as happy unto her!

Raph. Well, gentlemen, good hap betide them both!
Since twas my hap thus happily to meete,
To be a witnesse of this sweete contract,
I doe rejoyce; wherefore, to have this joye
Longer present with me, I do request
That all of you will be my promist guests:
This long nights labour dooth desire some rest,
Besides this wished end; therefore, I pray,
Let me deteine yee but a dinner time:
Tell me, I pray, shall I obtaine so much?

M. Bar. Gentle sir Raphe, your courtesie is such
As may impose commaund unto us all;
We will be thankfull bolde at your request.

Phil. I pray, sir Raph, what cheere shall we have?

S. Raph. I faith, countrie fare, mutton and veale,
Perchance a ducke or goose.

Mal. Oh, I am sick!

All. How now, Mall? whats the matter?

Mal. Father and mother, if you needs would know,
He nam'd a goose, which is my stomacks foe.

Phil. Come, come, she is with childe of some od jest,
And now shees sicke till that she bring it foorth.

Mal. A jest, quoth you! well, brother, if it be,
I feare twill proove an earnest unto me.—
Goose, said ye, sir? Oh, that same very name
Hath in it much variety of shame!
Of all the birds that ever yet was seene,
I would not have them graze upon this greene;
I hope they will not, for this crop is poore,
And they may pasture upon greater store:
But yet tis pittie that they let them passe,
And like a common bite the Muses grasse.
Yet this I feare; if Franke and I should kisse,
Some creeking goose would chide us with a hisse:
I meane not that goose that sings it knowes not what;
Tis not that hisse when one saies, 'hist, come hither';
Nor that same hisse that setteth dogges together;
Nor that same hisse that by a fire doth stand,
And hisseth T. or F. upon the hand;
But tis a hisse, and Ile unlace my cote,
For I should sound sure, if I heard that note,
And then 'greene ginger for the greene goose' cries,
Serves not the turne,—I turn'd the white of eyes.
The rosa-solis yet that makes me live
Is favour that these gentlemen may give;
But if they be displeased, then pleasde am I,
To yeeld my selfe a hissing death to dye:
Yet I hope heeres none consents to kill,
But kindly take the favour of good will.
If any thing be in the pen to blame,
Then here stand I to blush the writers shame:
If this be bad, he promises a better;
Trust him, and he will proove a right true debter.

[Exeunt.]